


The Sleeper of the Valley

by MelodyGarnet



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: But also not, Drabble, Fix-It, Poetry fic, Rimbaud, Thilbo, actually it could even be bromance, but like lowkey, dormeur du val, end of BOFA au, it's fine, like movie levels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 04:58:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4508694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyGarnet/pseuds/MelodyGarnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo has gone missing at the final battle. A healed but distraught Thorin follows his feet while musing about this.</p>
<p>Inspired by the poem by Arthur Rimbaud called Le Dormeur Du Val.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sleeper of the Valley

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Actual_Trash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actual_Trash/gifts).



**The Sleeper of the Valley**

 

It had been the Hobbit that had saved the Durins' lives. He had appeared in the middle of battle and warned them away from the rocky hills that would have been their death. Thorin, his gold madness lifted, had listened to the little one’s desperate pleas to stay away, and had ordered him to stay hidden himself. He had forced his mind away from the memory of the gate, had pushed down the urge to beg forgiveness of the loyal hobbit. They had been in the middle of battle, there was no time.

He should have done it, the king reproached himself now. Once his wounds were healed, he roamed far and wide around the army camp, deep in thought. He should have dropped to his knees then and there, he regretted, proclaimed how sorry he was, how humbled by Bilbo’s willingness to sacrifice himself for the sake of the Company. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t. And now all Thorin could do was lament the missed chance, for Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit of the Company, had gone missing on the battlefield.

The three Durins had been the last to see him alive, although his disembodied voice had been later heard alerting the five armies of the arrival of the Eagles. None had seen nor heard from him ever since. Men, elves and dwarves had gone out in search, ravens had been sent out to spy from above... all in vain.

Ever since their imprisonment in by the Elves, the Dwarf king had known that the Hobbit had an uncanny knack of going unnoticed, but his appearing out of thin air on the battlefield had shown that Bilbo was capable of becoming invisible. This made hearing the news that Bilbo was missing- probably wounded, more probably dead- on the battlefield horrifying. There was no chance of Bilbo being found if he could not be seen.

If he was still alive but wounded, then he could not be found and taken to the healers, and he would die. If he was already dead, then his body could not be found and buried with honour.

It had been days. There was no doubt in Thorin’s mind that the cheerful Hobbit had been fatally wounded and had succumbed to his wounds while hiding himself from the ravages of battle.

The thought brought a knot in Thorin’s throat, laid a heavy weight on his chest and brought tears to his eyes. His dear friend- for a friend the Hobbit had been, one that Thorin had wanted to have by his side forever- was surely dead. He had died without knowing that Thorin forgave him the theft of the Arkenstone, that Thorin would take every hurtful word back in a heartbeat. He, a creature of peace and comfort, had died forsaken and alone on a bloody battlefield miles from his home.

And for what? Thorin, King under the Mountain, kicked at the ground like a petulant child. For this, he asked himself. For a mountain and a throne and a king who deserved no such title, for friends who deserved no such name, for a land that Bilbo had nothing to do with.

Then he noticed the little flowers he’d kicked out of the ground. He smiled sadly. Maybe for this, the dwarf considered, and looked around. In his troubled musing he had wandered away from camp, into a small valley behind the rocky hills where the orcs had lain in wait to kill the heirs of Durin, beyond the place where he had last seen his Hobbit.

In the few days after the battle, the land had breathed in relief. Sensing the dragon’s demise by the absence of dark magic, watered by the melted snow that had fallen in the freak snowfall the day of the battle, grasses, late autumn wildflowers and early winter flowers had bloomed all around. From the steep hills of Erebor down to the banks of the Long Lake, life had reasserted itself lightning-quick. There weren’t enough crops yet to feed all the Dwarves and Humans that would take shelter in Erebor during the winter, but trade routes were swiftly established only the day after the last orc had fled. Nevertheless, the colourful surroundings lifted many a battle-worn spirit and it was a promising omen of the abundancy that the first dragon-free spring in decades would bring.

***

It was in a small valley bubbling with colour amidst the rocky hills- a secret hollow hidden from sight by steep high walls - undisturbed, no traces left of foul orc or steely battle- that Thorin found himself. The sight before him, invisible to him until he had been brought out of his gloomy thoughts, took his breath away.

Beams of sunlight fell upon the valley, streaming down upon the hollow. A dozen tiny waterfalls trickled downwards, babbling, carrying molten snow from the high walls of the tiny valley to the small singing brook in the farthest corner.  The jagged rocks, stones and pebbles- pale blue of colour in their shadowed parts- were dappled gold where beams of the low-hanging autumn sun touched them. Between these blue-gold rocks lay a thick carpet of verdant grass, dotted here and there with early winter wildflowers, white as snow with a bright yellow center.

In the far corner of the hollow, there was a small, low overhang. There,  emerald vines climbed the rocky wall and overhang and decorated it with their flowers the colour of a summer sky. At the foot of this overhang did the brook bend, its small banks already covered in a fresh tangle of young blooms that burned a fiery orange.

The King under the Mountain thought to himself that, if his Hobbit would have died for anything, it would have been this: life. Beautiful, colourful, breathtaking bursts of life that banished dark thoughts from the mind, black heaviness from the heart, grey desolation from the land.

Slowly he made his way down to the brook, planning to rest his feet there, surrounded by life. Surely such beauty and peace could lift his spirit, if even for a short time.

***

It is then, approaching the overhang hopefully, that he sees it: the small figure lying hidden underneath the hanging rock. The signing brook does not disturb the sleeper, nor does the heavy tred of the dwarf. A dwarven helmet cushions the bare head, which is crowned by flowers as blue as its vest and young, green vines. All around the sleeping figure many different- coloured flowers spring up, creating a heady perfume that no one could ignore. A hand lies flat upon an unmoving chest, the other loosely cradling a golden ring and a small object the colour of the figure’s chestnut curls.

An elven dagger lies beside it, half-buried in the pale-green grass. As the king falls to his knees in despair at the figure’s naked feet, a beam of light that previously formed a golden halo around the King’s dark head, catches on silver mail. The sleeping soldier’s forehead is painted red.

**Author's Note:**

> I have always been a particular fan of this poem, which I was first introduced to in French class. Ever since, it's been haunting me- the image it paints in the mind with the five senses, the song-like rhythm of it, the use of language... This was sort of a drabble to distract me from the other fic I've been writing, because I'm slaving over getting the emotional reactions right, which tends to be a bit of a problem for me.
> 
> LE DORMEUR DU VAL  
> C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière  
> Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons  
> D'argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,  
> Luit : c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.
> 
> Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,  
> Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,  
> Dort ; il est étendu dans l'herbe sous la nue,  
> Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.
> 
> Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme  
> Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme :  
> Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid.
> 
> Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ;  
> Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine  
> Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit.
> 
> (Arthur Rimbaud, Le Dormeur du val, octobre 1870)


End file.
